


i prayed my mind be good to me

by cryptidhearted



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Petplay, Shifting perspective, could be considered straight nonconsent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidhearted/pseuds/cryptidhearted
Summary: The cool breeze on his face is comfortable. The sunset behind him suffuses the whole of the neighborhood with the soft orange glow. Things are good. Things are really good. He can hear Brian’s television inside, some old drama or something that he’s pretty sure is just meant to play in the background. Despite the amount of times he’s already been told it’s okay for him to just come in, Tim knocks on the door, andMasky steps through the threshold into the ruined shack, hunched slightly forward, his claws digging into his forearms and his mouth hanging open somewhat to compensate for the fact he’s struggling to breathe clearly. There’s a tension in the whole of his body, his sight flickering and twitching between pictures that he struggles to reconcile with each other. Like two pictures overlapped and overexposed he sees the welcoming doorway and the darkness of the derelict shack, feels the fading sunshine on the back of his neck and the icy cold of the forest in the night, smells the familiar scents of blood and underbrush and the perfume of the neighbor’s flower garden that always wafted through the windows of Brian’s house when he left them open.





	i prayed my mind be good to me

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dubcon at it's nicest and noncon at it's worst.  
> masky is nonverbal and feral and not really actually capable of giving consent due to his complete separation from reality, so there's your warning.
> 
> this was also an experimental writing style for me to begin with, so! enjoy.
> 
> [find me on tumblr!](https://cryptidhearted.tumblr.com/)

Since the filming of Alex Kralie’s Marble Hornets started a week ago, Tim has settled into this sort of awkward manner of routine of checking to find out if he’ll be needed for filming, lurking around set even if he isn’t really, and actually—having friends. Alex might be a little pretentious, but he seems friendly enough, Sarah has proven to be funnier than she has any right to be for a dramatic actress, Seth’s knowledge on camerawork is genuinely impressive, and Jay’s a little absentminded but has shown himself to be good company, too… and Tim is eager for any given opportunity to be able to spend more time with Brian.

He’d been shy. He’s not very shy anymore. He’s happy.

It’s a new feeling.

The sun is setting over the suburb by the time Tim turns into the neighborhood, flicking his headlights on (just in case) and following the direction he’s familiar with, tapping his fingers idly on the steering wheel. Brian lives in a nice neighborhood. Not expensive, but it’s a good house, for a college student, and Brian happens to be lucky enough to not live with any roommates. The houses are a little more spread out to compensate for the places trees were too comfortable where they were to build over, and every now and again Tim catches sight of lawn toys left out in the grass. It’s not summer yet, but it’s in the air, and the excitement alone makes it worth looking forward to.

Brian’s house at the end of the street is lit up by a porch light and one light in the lower window, like a beacon in the dark by the time Tim pulls up in front of it. He takes a moment to gather himself as he turns the car off, sitting back in the driver’s seat.

How long has it been since he’s known Brian? Less than a month after he started going to college, and less than a few months after that their relationship had become a bit more serious than that, and yet Tim still feels nerves tying themselves into a knot in his chest any time they go out together—or in this case, any time he’s invited over. (It’s a new experience, being invited.) Even knowing the plan, because he knows Brian and the nature of their relationship, it’s hard to shake the uncertainty; like he’s the rabbit in the hat and the magician’s about to come pull him out by the ears at any moment, or the rug is about to be pulled out from under him, or—

Tim exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head, tucking his keys in his pocket and undoing his seatbelt before he climbs out of the car. Things are good. Things are going really good. He fishes around his jacket pockets for his pills for a second, takes the moment to swallow one before he starts the short walk up the driveway and past Brian’s car, and brushes his jacket off when he’s put himself back together.

The cool breeze on his face is comfortable. The sunset behind him suffuses the whole of the neighborhood with the soft orange glow. Things are good. Things are really good. He can hear Brian’s television inside, some old drama or something that he’s pretty sure is just meant to play in the background. Despite the amount of times he’s already been told it’s okay for him to just come in, Tim knocks on the door, and

Masky steps through the threshold into the ruined shack, hunched slightly forward, his claws digging into his forearms and his mouth hanging open somewhat to compensate for the fact he’s struggling to breathe clearly. There’s a tension in the whole of his body, his sight flickering and twitching between pictures that he struggles to reconcile with each other. Like two pictures overlapped and overexposed he sees the welcoming doorway and the darkness of the derelict shack, feels the fading sunshine on the back of his neck and the icy cold of the forest in the night, smells the familiar scents of blood and underbrush and the perfume of the neighbor’s flower garden that always wafted through the windows of Brian’s house when he left them open. There is the distinct sensation of something having it’s eyes on him that he has never been able to shake, and Masky gnashes his sharp teeth in agitation and discomfort as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He knows he is supposed to be here. Something _always_ guides him here, to this one or the other one, leads him along like a child held by the hand and he feels like moving in circles, like digging his claws into the dirt and concrete and wood and carving himself a path to follow.

“Where have you been, mutt?”

The voice cuts through the cacophony that is his mindless thoughts and Masky blinks, tilts his head, bares sharp teeth and almost makes to crouch—but he settles in the same instant, pupils blown wide and drool gathering in his mouth at the sight of worn yellow fabric and the black hood. He blinks a few more times, as if attempting to clear his vision, but the distortion refuses to steady itself. Hunched over like this, he has to look up as the hooded figure approaches properly, and he stares blankly into the pair of red eyes and the pronounced frown as a hand comes to his chin to make him do more than look up at Hoody through his eyelashes.

“It’s been a while.”

Masky’s response is to growl through clenched teeth.

Hoody’s reply is a noise between a laugh and a grunt, the rough cloth covering his thumb coming up to Masky’s lips in order to push one up and get a look at his mouth. This is a routine that Masky is familiar with, though the fact he has so very rarely seen his (lover master partner friend’s?) face leads him to wonder what the other is looking for. He feels cloth catch on his canines, the maw full of fangs that Masky is quite proud of, and feels the pressure on his jaw as Hoody changes the gesture to make him open his mouth all the way.

“I hope you haven’t been eating garbage again.” He mutters, and the fabric of the gloves is pressed against his tongue as Hoody holds it down. “Makes your breath stink more than usual.” Masky squirms, struggling against the surprisingly strong grasp just long enough for

Brian’s couch is old and slightly saggy, but it’s a comfortable place to be, and Tim’s fairly certain he can’t come up with anywhere that’d be any better, not when he’s pressed up against Brian’s chest with one of Brian’s arms around his waist and the other on his shoulder. He’s got one of his own hands fisting in the worn fabric and the other around Brian’s neck—He’s slightly embarrassed, when he realizes the fact it took him all of twenty minutes to more or less throw himself at his boyfriend, but what else is he supposed to do? Filming is great and all but Tim’s _more or less_ the jealous type, and how _else_ is he meant to make up for the fact he’s not the most comfortable with public displays of affection?

“Jesus, Tim, you in a rush or something?” Brian’s laugh against his lips feels and tastes sweet in the same way. Tim’s whole body feels warm, like he’s wrapped in a fluffy blanket and sat down in front of a fire with world’s greatest cup of hot cocoa and it all comes from the lips against the corners of his mouth and the hand at the small of his back.

“No.” Tim answers, hastily. “Never.”

“Well,” The other replies, leisurely shifting back and tilting his head again to kiss at Tim’s scruffy jawline, “I could think of a few things for us to do while you’re taking it slow.”

“Yeah—” Tim chuckles, tilts his head up and shuts his eyes, his hands on Brian’s shoulders, “Yeah. Why not.”

Hoody’s strong grasp on his jaw is met with the second hand on his shoulder and Masky is resistant as he’s pressed down to the ground, on his knees on the dirty concrete. He struggles and snarls against his grasp but the hand holding his tongue doesn’t let go, making him gag on it as he shakes his head from side to side. He wants to bite—wants to sink his teeth in and make Hoody regret putting it in his mouth to begin with, show him how it feels to lose a piece of himself down his maw, but even as the gloves catch on his sharpened fangs there is nothing left behind but pieces of fabric and the tantalizing scent of flesh underneath.

The hand holding his tongue down is only withdrawn when Masky finally relents and remains still, kneeling in front of Hoody with the other’s hands on his cheeks, keeping him looking up into that immutable frown. The hooded man tilts his head almost thoughtfully and lingers there, Masky feeling static settling comfortably around him like a halo as fingers move from his cheek to run through his hair.

“There.” He mutters through the fabric that hides his face. “You want to be a good dog. I know how you work.”

Masky shuts his eyes and feels himself lean into the touch. It’s a concrete sensation amongst all the noise and fading—he can still smell blood and flowers all at once, hear the static and the rustling of the wind through the leaves and the sound of an old television set rattling along to a forgotten show. The hand in his hair is grounding, comforting, and the tension in his body begins to fade as he allows his body to relax, guided into it by the firm touch and the low voice. His shaky breathing deepens, but does not even out.

“Stay.” Hoody says—

and all at once withdraws.

The noise comes flooding back in and Masky feels his claws digging into the concrete, feels himself try and fail to breathe deep. There is a moment of—being torn, the harsh desire for that touch to continue warring with the knowledge that he’s been given instructions, that he _needs_ to obey and listen, that Hoody knows best and it’s wrong for him to be selfish, like always, because this is how they’re going to _fix_ things, but this is—he needs—he _needs_ — He lunges forward in the same moment that Hoody steps back and yelps when a hand—fist—collides with the side of his head to send him right back down into the dirt, face first.

“Bad dog.” Hoody snaps, though Masky can’t tell if his voice is malicious or not. In an instant he feels apologetic and furious in the same gesture, keeping himself low to the ground and snarling in reply. An angry, predatory gesture. His right ear where Hoody struck him is ringing loud enough for him to feel lopsided and half deaf, the noise lingering even as he focuses in harshly on the man standing above him.

“Stay. Put.” Hoody repeats, and Masky shifts onto his hands and knees, baring his teeth and growling low in his throat.

Tim shifts his weight slow to place himself on Brian’s lap, and Brian doesn’t offer a word of complaint, his hands moving to Tim’s hips as the other straddles him. Tim places his forehead against his and keeps his hands on Brian’s shoulders as the man’s thumbs catch in his belt loops on the way to the button on his jeans. Arousal is already hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach as he presses his cheek to Brian’s, feeling deft hands undo the button and zipper in one practiced motion—

“Hold on.” Tim mutters, tilting his head to plant a kiss against Brian’s cheek, “Got a better idea.”

“Do you?” Brian replies, keeping still, nuzzling Tim’s cheek in reply. “Plan to share?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Tim’s jeans are loose around his hips as he shifts back, moving from on top of Brian’s lap in order to place himself between his knees, hands on his thighs to push the other man’s legs apart and give himself enough room. Brian’s expression is one of surprise, certainly, but it morphs quickly into that wide grin that makes Tim’s insides melt as he leans forward a little bit.

“I’m beginning to like this idea.” Brian smirks, reaching to put his fingers through Tim’s hair.

Hoody’s absence lasts—a short time. Masky doesn’t count. He doesn’t do anything. He remains where Hoody put him after he struck him, moving back and forth in unsteady motions on his hands and knees and fixating his eyes on the doorway to the other room. This is a routine he’s halfway familiar with, he thinks, beyond all the noise; Hoody will bring his mask and tell him to get up and point him in a direction and tell him where he is meant to go and what he is meant to do. It’s happened before. It always happens, because Hoody’s always got some sort of plan in the back of his head, and Masky is usually happy to follow the instructions, give or take a few unfortunate accidents—

Except this time when Hoody comes back, there’s a long stretch of leather in his hands and silver metal glints in the moonlight that passes through the clouds. Instead of giving direction to stand or pointing in any direction, the man in the hood simply approaches and grabs Masky by the jaw again, yanking him nearer somewhat unceremoniously.

The metal is cold as it’s placed around his throat and he snarls again as he feels cloth-covered fingers tightening it steadily until there’s enough pressure that it’s just a little harder to breathe than he’s comfortable with. Not enough to choke him—not yet, but through the haze in his head some quiet part of him is happy to tell him what Hoody has just put around his neck. A collar. Choke chain.

The leather attached to it moments later is a leash, and Hoody grasps both the leash and collar (two fingers against his throat as he holds Masky still), examining his handiwork. The leash is long enough that it’s folded in Hoody’s hand, and Masky’s dark eyes fixate on the frown that lurks above him. He gets the feeling that he’s smiling (smirking?) behind it.

Hoody takes a few steps backward after another firm snap of “Stay.” and this time Masky obeys, cautious and uncertain, his maw hanging open and sharpened teeth matching the glint of the choke chain around his throat. The hooded man wraps the leash around his wrist and holds it tight in his hand, steps back until the leather is pulled taut by the distance between them.

There is tension between them as Masky shifts backwards in discomfort and then Hoody _yanks_.

Masky yelps—

chokes—

dragged forward again—

His hands come up immediately to pull at the collar around his throat as what had already been too tight constricts his breathing enough for it to _hurt_ suddenly, claws scrabbling at the cold metal in panicked desperation. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe like when that _THING_ gets too close— He writhes and chokes, snarls and gasps, tries his damnedest to get the collar to loosen up but every yank and twitch only seems to make it tighten and he can’t _breathe_ as he begins to cough, feeling the metal dig into his flesh with every shift of his throat.

Hoody, above him, laughs.

By the time Hoody comes near enough to kneel and loosen the chain again, Masky is coughing heavily, spitting blood and phlegm onto the dirty concrete floor as the other pulls gently enough to let him breathe, but not enough for it to feel truly loose. The fabric-covered fingers remain in the collar as Masky pants for breath and looks up at him, the creature’s expression accusatory and confused. There is a moment’s pause where the two of them simply stare—Masky looking into the eyes of the hood and baring his teeth—before a clawed hand comes up in a quick gesture in an attempt to retaliate.

Hoody is expecting it, though, and grabs him by the wrist, his grasp tight enough to hurt as Masky’s claws come to within inches of the red eyes that stare him down.

“Proof of concept.” Hoody says, pulling Masky along with him as he moves to stand up—the one on the ground hisses and snarls again, but it doesn’t act as much of a deterrent. “Glad to see that works. Are you going to behave yourself, now?”

He stands straight and releases his wrist, and Masky falls unceremoniously onto his shoulder before picking himself up back onto his knees, still breathing heavy as he looks up at at at

At Brian above him, Tim’s hands on his hips and cheek against his inner thigh, Brian’s fly half undone. The tv is still droning along in the background and Tim can feel Brian’s hand through his hair, lazily and encouraging to couple with that smile while Tim stops just to take in the scenery.

“Having fun down there?” Brian questions in that teasing way of his and Tim snorts as he shrugs in reply.

“View’s not bad.” Tim moves his hands from Brian’s hips to his groin again, working to finish unbuttoning his jeans and pull them down around his hips enough to get to the other man’s underwear. “Why, you in a hurry?”

“No.” Brian replies. “Never.”

Their echoes answer each other, and Tim hums lightly as he kneads at Brian’s groin, earning an audible hiss and a soft exhale that comes along with his name and makes Tim shiver in pleasure without anything more than Brian’s hand fisting in his hair.

Hoody yanks him nearer and holds him against his groin by the hair, Masky’s response being to bring clawed hands up to dig into the denim of his jeans that he can reach. Not enough to harm, exactly, but as he struggles to clear his vision it serves to ground him more in the familiar, steady sensations. Hoody’s grasp is not gentle, but Masky doesn’t mind it much as he leans into it regardless. There is slight discomfort in the way Hoody’s hips rock against his cheek, the worn fabric of the hoodie rubbing against his face and providing him another anchor to lean into as the man above him exhales through his teeth. Masky makes a low noise, and Hoody’s grip loosens slightly, moving from his hair to the leash clipped around Masky’s neck.

There is an instant where Masky’s static thoughts tell him that he’s going to be choked again, but Hoody doesn’t yank the way he was prepared for, and Masky’s warning snarl goes unheeded. The man wraps the leash around his hand and wrist again, holding it close to the collar to hold Masky where he is as he pulls the low hem of the hoodie up around his hips. The one on his knees gets a glimpse of pale skin under a dark shirt as the fabric bunches up and Hoody uses his free hand in order to unbutton his pants and free his erection in one steady movement.

Tim leans forward eagerly to take Brian’s cock into his mouth—

Masky simply parts his lips and goes slackjawed to allow room for Hoody’s dick—

This is familiar in ways that make him feel warm and ways that make his stomach twist up in knots in the same way. The static settles around Masky like a comfortable blanket as Hoody eases his shaft into the heat of his mouth, and his eyes are half-closed as his gaze fixates on a fuzzy spot somewhere against Hoody’s clothed stomach. There is a heat between his own legs that’s hard to ignore, but he remains still and settles comfortably into the white noise as he feels Hoody’s groin meet his nose.

Masky drools around the cock in his mouth as they remain still for a moment, the sound of the man above him gathering himself and adjusting his hold on the leash. There’s no danger here. There never is. Hoody is in control, and he knows it, based on the way his grip on the leash loosens somewhat and both hands end up on either side of Masky’s face.

He gags as Hoody thrusts into his throat, but it doesn’t serve as a deterrent, nor does it bother Masky very much at all.

“God, fuck—" Brian says above him as his fingers curl in his hair, as nails dig into his scalp, as Tim feels drool down his chin and smirks around his shaft,

“You’re good at this.” Hoody says with a relaxed sigh, and Masky feels good, because he knows how hard it is for his master partner (lover?) to ever get a decent night’s sleep. The praise feels good and so he squirms just enough to shift forward, careful of his sharp teeth as he shuts his eyes and feels the way Hoody’s dick in his throat makes it hard to breathe in the same way the collar does.

“Tim,” says one of them, and Masky cannot tell which, “You feel good—”

Hoody keeps the movement slow and steady, because he’s in no hurry, and Masky keeps himself still and slackjawed to provide. Drool and precum mix, trickling down his throat and down his chin and onto his shirt, but he doesn’t mind it. This is good. Things are good. It’s almost hypnotic in a way, something physical to ground him in the sea of static that makes his body feel light and makes the man’s words above him sound faraway and impossibly distant for how close together they’re pressed.

It doesn’t take long. With how rarely this happens, it’s never a surprise—

Hoody grunts his warning and Masky continues to remain statue-still as the man above him thrusts into his mouth one last time and cums with a yelp, holding him still so Masky can fixate on swallowing around him until he’s finished, at which point Hoody releases him altogether and holds onto nothing but the leash as Masky falls slightly forward with nothing else to lean on, his parted lips allowing a mix of drool and Hoody’s cum to drip from his mouth and onto the ground as Masky catches himself on his hands.

“Good dog.” Hoody says with a heavy breath above him. The leash is tugged, slightly, and Masky’s breathing constricts again— “All the way down.”

Masky growls again, a low and unsteady sound in the back of his throat. The leash is pulled again, and the chain constricts, and the growl becomes a cough as Masky places himself on his hands and knees near the mess he’d spat out, lowering his cheek to the ground. Hoody paces around behind him, still pulling the leash taught as he presses Masky’s wrists together. The leash is looped around them and _tied_ tight as the hooded man keeps an eye on the tightness of the collar, uttering an approving noise as he reaches for Masky again, yanking his hips up and

Brian’s forehead presses against Tim’s as he shifts his hips, Tim exhaling shakily as he wraps his arms around Brian’s neck. A kiss is pressed to his cheek and Tim grins, breathing heavy as he feels Brian’s cock rock in and out of his ass at a steady, patient pace. Brian’s fingers dig into his thighs slightly and this angle is awkward with Brian still on the couch and Tim comfortable on his lap, but they’re not exactly after anything else but being close to each other, and neither of them are about to start complaining. Quite the opposite, really, with the way Tim is fumbling to try and say anything, cut off every time Brian thrusts up. It’s all shaky breaths and the occasional laugh cut through with the tv static of a video tape that ended a while ago and hasn’t been turned back on yet.

“Love you.” Brian pants into his ear, and Tim feels his whole face flush. “I love you.” Brian’s lips graze his ear, his head tilts to press kisses to his throat and Tim moans audibly—

“I love you, too.” Tim answers, as best he can, digging his nails into Brian’s shoulders and

Masky squirms as Hoody digs his nails into his hips and gives a low noise of protest, but the movements don’t stop as he feels Hoody’s hips pressing against his own in that same slow, steady pace—It gets rougher, after a time, and it’s the jolting thrust and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh that breaks Masky from his reverie. The static and the rustling of leaves is interrupted by Hoody’s moans and Masky feels a spike of pleasure up his spine, his eyes open and back arching slightly as he answers Hoody’s with his own. The squirming and writhing seem to be a problem, with the way that the hooded man’s fingers dig into the flesh of his hips, but

Brian always holds him tight enough for it to hurt but that’s how Tim prefers it, he doesn’t mind getting apologies for bruises or the occasional scrape or two because it’s proof that someone loves him, and he’s not shy about that at the very least because nothing feels better than

Hoody’s body weight pressing him down against the dirt and debris, his hood pushed up enough for Masky to truly feel the heat of his breath against his ear as he does. It’s an attempt to pin him and get him to stop moving but Hoody is as wrapped up in the endeavor of fucking Masky as his partner is, and it is

“Good, good, fuck, keep going, I’m nearly—” Tim sputters and yelps and feels Brian’s hand grasp his cock tight and the heat of his hand is enough for

Masky cums with a yelp and an arch and feels Hoody cum in the same instant inside him, the heat of it making him whine as he shuts his eyes and feels the one above him wrap his arms around him. Teeth dig into Masky’s throat under the metal of the collar and he pants for breath, still unable to truly breathe deeply past the chain, but it’s. Good. This is good. Things are good.

Hoody’s chest is heaving. He can feel it against his back, feel his breath against the skin on his neck and his teeth grazing the wound he made there, his tongue swiping against bloody bitemarks as he gathers himself and clings tight to Masky underneath him.

“Good dog.” He mutters, and the praise feels good as Masky shuts his eyes. “You’re my good dog.” Hoody pulls away, running his fingers along the leash that keeps Masky’s hands bound and sitting back on top of the one underneath him. Masky is about to try and find his voice in the same moment that Hoody grips the back of the collar and _yanks_ , harder than the first time.

Masky’s response is to choke, of course, to yelp and snarl and struggle and

 

 

Tim wakes up with his face pressed into a pile of leaves and a soreness through the whole of his body that he has no idea what to make of.

Take stock.

He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees and coughs, feeling a jolt of pain through his throat. He lifts his hand automatically to it and swallows, wincing as he does. Something’s wrong with his neck—good to know. He pulls his fingers away and looks down at them, catching a glimpse of something slightly red and sighing through his nose as he shifts his weight back onto his haunches. That proves to be a mistake, too; his pants are loose around his hips and his back disagrees with the posture, intensely.

Still, it’s nothing Tim’s not unfamiliar with, even if this makes his stomach twist. He steadies himself, rising to stand on his own two feet slowly. He feels—wobbly. Like he shouldn’t be moving far from the forest floor to begin with, like he should be staying there and sleeping it off until nothing hurts anymore. Whatever had happened the night before had put him through the ringer, evidently, and he’s not looking forward to looking in the mirror upon his return as he takes one unsteady step forward and feels an ache move from the small of his back to somewhere between his shoulders, lingering along with the gathering headache behind his eyes.

He coughs, lifting one dirty hand to wipe his eyes with the back of his palm.

There is the distinct sensation of being watched, but what else is new?

Tim breathes in and out, slowly, ignoring the sickening taste in his mouth as he adjusts his pants and feels his elbows pop as he stretches them out, rolling his shoulders as he fixes the button and laments that his belt is nowhere to be found. The sunlight on his eyes is burning.

Take stock.

What time is it?

Too god damn early in the morning, if that’s sunrise.

Tim rubs his eyes again and clears his vision.

At least he has the benefit of knowing Rosswood Park better than he should. Glancing over his shoulder for a moment, he shakes his head. His phone isn’t in his pocket, nor are his meds, and it’s only just now that he realizes his shoes either weren’t on in the first place or ended up lost somewhere in the woods, his toes digging into the dirt and grass beneath his bare feet.

One step forward makes the whole of his protesting bones turn into a cacophony of discomfort, and Tim grits his teeth.

Home, then. Find his way home. He can do that. He’s always been pretty good at that.

A camera’s shutter clicks shut in the woods behind him as Tim stumbles unceremoniously in the direction of the distant path.


End file.
